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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23002201">Borderline</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht'>jusrecht</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fix-It of Sorts, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:55:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23002201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How three strangers tried to save Tom Blake's life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Blake &amp; William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Borderline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <ol>
<li><em> General Erinmore</em></li>
</ol><p> </p><p>Some people don’t blink when they send soldiers to certain death.</p><p> </p><p>Erinmore was not one of them. With time, however, with each order, each death toll under that order, he learned to get used to it. Very few things in life are more terrible than getting used to sending one’s fellow humans to certain death, but Erinmore had always been a good learner. This was how he, a man of humble beginnings, had been able to climb so high. And the higher he went, the greater the number, the easier it became. One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic.</p><p> </p><p>Sending two soldiers on <em>this</em> mission, unfortunately, belonged to the former.</p><p> </p><p>Erinmore kept his face expressionless as he rapped out the mission details. Everyone in the room knew what he was asking. It wasn’t only a fool’s errand; it was a suicide mission with only the barest hope for success—except that hope also had sixteen hundred lives riding on its sliver of success, and so Erinmore gave the order and no one in the room spoke up.</p><p> </p><p>(Blake’s chosen partner almost did, and with good reason. Neither Blake nor Erinmore gave him a chance. Also with good reason.)</p><p> </p><p>“Any questions?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good luck.”</p><p> </p><p>And then they were gone.</p><p> </p><p>In their wake was a beat of silence, wrought with the unspoken. Then Gordon cleared his throat and started asking questions about food supplies. Sanders answered. A semblance of normalcy returned.</p><p> </p><p>Erinmore barely listened. He was thinking about his two sons and their near escape at Verdun a year ago. They were on leave right now, at home with their mother.</p><p> </p><p>When he suddenly rushed out of the dugout, no one spoke up either.</p><p> </p><p>He went after them. The confusing network of trenches stretched before him, but his feet remembered his own instructions. West. Paradise Alley. The Yorks. His hands pushed tired ambling soldiers out of the way. Any protest died as soon as they realised who he was. The more alert ones removed themselves, staring at the sight of the general stumbling and running after who-knows-what.</p><p> </p><p>“Corporal!”</p><p> </p><p>Many heads turned, including Blake’s partner—Erinmore had already forgotten his name. But he turned, and he grabbed Blake’s shoulder to get his attention.</p><p> </p><p>Erinmore was nearly out of breath by the time he stopped running. Now that he had them in front of him, these two boys, one younger than his sons, the other older, his mind went blank.</p><p> </p><p>They both waited. Blake was fidgety, wide-eyed, hands clenching and unclenching on his straps. His partner was tense, uneasy. Other soldiers in the vicinity were staring at them. No one was even trying to pretend he wasn’t listening.</p><p> </p><p>Erinmore took a deep breath. “You meet any of them,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, “and I do mean <em>any </em>of them, either you stay out of sight, or you shoot. That is an order, do you understand?”</p><p> </p><p>There was a moment of incredulous silence as each considered the absurdity of the situation. Surely the general wouldn’t have run after them only to underline such an obvious point.</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s partner stirred first. “Is… that all, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Erinmore retorted, his imperiousness returning. “Do you understand, Corporal?”</p><p> </p><p>This time, it was Blake who answered.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li><em> Lieutenant Leslie</em></li>
</ol><p> </p><p>Leslie didn’t know their names.</p><p> </p><p>He made it a point to learn as few names as possible while he’s still stuck in this hellhole. They all died sooner or later, replaced by newer faces and newer names—which he wouldn’t bother to commit to memory either since no one ever lasted that long. Then even <em>newer</em> replacements would come and the entire process would begin again, and this would keep happening until he died himself and mercifully forgot about this circle of hell, rinse and repeat, ad infinitum.</p><p> </p><p>In the meantime, Leslie was entitled to safeguard what was left of his sanity, namely by <em>not</em> burdening himself with too many dead names. This system, however, had one problem that only became obvious afterwards. He ended up giving them all nicknames in his head, and that was, somehow, worse.</p><p> </p><p>He called them Plump and Gaunt. Plump hadn’t seen much of war, that much was obvious. Anyone who had spent any decent stretch of time at the front line wore the same in-bed-with-the-dead look. They certainly wouldn’t have any excess fat—or energy, for that matter—to flaunt. They wouldn’t move around like they were strolling down the Piccadilly either.</p><p> </p><p>Gaunt, equally obvious, came from the ranks of the walking wounded. Where his partner made enough noise to wake up the dead, he was soft-footed, vigilant. Not that it would make a difference out there. They were both dead men walking from the moment this ‘mission’ had fallen into their laps. Leslie didn’t believe in miracles and these two would need nothing less to make it to Ecoust in any kind of condition approaching alive.</p><p> </p><p>But orders were orders and Leslie was, above all, a pragmatic man. He also had a forty-degree fever and a cot that was waiting for his return, no matter how uncomfortable--and so he told them which way to take, donated a flare gun to the cause, and let them go with a proper send-off, absolution and all.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need to learn their names. Nope. No, sir.</p><p> </p><p>Except he opened his mouth the moment they started climbing and said, against all his self-preservation instincts, “Knives.”</p><p> </p><p>Perched on the ladder, Gaunt and Plump stared at him, one tense, the other nonplussed.</p><p> </p><p>“Knives?” Plump repeated.</p><p> </p><p>“They have knives as well as guns. You know that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh… yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Leslie muttered, already blaming the fever. “Just thought I’d share. Go. Off with you.”</p><p> </p><p>Then they were gone, muted footsteps over piles of mud and corpses.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li><em> Captain Smith</em></li>
</ol><p> </p><p>“You’re an idiot?”</p><p> </p><p>Smith did not lower his gun, not even when it became obvious that his bullet had found its mark. The German pilot was dead and the ringing echo of the shot was still sharp in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>The two soldiers turned at the sound of his voice, faces blank from shock. The younger one reacted first.</p><p> </p><p>“He…” His face convulsed, from shock to betrayal, relief to rage. “He was hurt.”</p><p> </p><p> “You’re alive,” Smith retorted. It was only when irritation set in that he lowered his gun. He uncurled his stiff fingers carefully; they could still feel the recoil from the pistol.</p><p> </p><p>The young soldier—corporal, now that Smith had gotten a better look at him—looked like he was about to argue further when his partner grabbed his shoulder. They both looked down.</p><p> </p><p>Smith didn’t need to come close to tell that they were staring at a knife, in the grip of the dead man’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>The younger one looked up first, his face flooded with guilt under the layer of dirt. “Captain–”</p><p> </p><p>Smith raised a hand to stop what he knew was coming. “What are you two doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>Boys like him didn’t last. Smith wanted neither apology nor gratitude when he knew that.</p><p> </p><p>For now, however, he can help them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>End</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Bonus: William Schofield</i><br/> </p><p>“Tom’s here?”</p><p>They really did look alike. Perhaps Joseph Blake wore his expression less openly and fatigue carved deeper lines on his face. But they had the same set of jaw, the same shape of mouth, the same way happiness would sneak in and light up their entire face. </p><p>Schofield was very glad to be able to say, “Yes, he is.”</p><p> </p><p>  <b>End (for real) </b></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <b>Notes: </b></p><p> </p><p>I feel like the bonus part is necessary because as Smith says, boys like Tom don’t last. So a proper conclusion is in order. </p><p>"One death is a tragedy, one million is a statistic" is usually attributed to Stalin, so might be a bit of anachronism there.</p><p>Last but not least, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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